


lettering: a how-to

by fyborg23



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Coach/Player Relationship, Implied Sebastian Aho/Teuvo Teravainen, M/M, Mild Backstabbing, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 08:45:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16194086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: Seppo doesn't have nearly half the star-power of other guys Teuvo's played with, but he's at least as canny as all of those other guys put together.





	lettering: a how-to

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caixa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caixa/gifts).



Knowing something is very different from seeing something. It's one thing for Teuvo to know how Seppo earned that letter, a little more security for _him_ after the previous summer. It's really another thing for Teuvo to see the white letter, with the jagged edges of a hurricane, glow under the dense fluorescent of the dressing room, right on Seppo's chest.

Seppo doesn't have nearly half the star-power of other guys Teuvo's played with, but he's at least as canny as all of those other guys put together. His eyelids droop comfortably when he sees Teuvo in the room, and reaches out to pound his shoulder, like they're just old friends--

Teuvo thinks he's allowed to hate Seppo a little. Not too much; he can't talk to _Rask_ every day. They are friends. Still. Just not as close as Seppo seems to think, not the kind of friends that means Seppo's eyes lights up when he sees Teuvo is in the room.

Teuvo traces the letter above where Seppo's heart is. Jabs it before he says, "You earned every stitch, Seppo," as he smiles thinly, his upper lip curling uncontrollably like the way it always did when he saw Saad in the Hawks hallways. Seppo drops his shoulders, and says in English with a sunny smile, "You're a _real_ friend, Teukka."

No one learns any language other than English here, but the rest of the dressing room know body language just fine. Teuvo stubs out his finger on Seppo's letter like a spent cigarette, hyper-aware of the stiffness of his spine, the jump of muscle in his jaw. Seppo keeps that smile on like his old friend isn't trying to roast him alive with his eyes.

Seppo has always been very good at spinning plays in his favor. Teuvo clenches his jaw, and jams his arms into pads rather than keep looking at him. What he was hoping for this season, Teuvo doesn't want to remember too closely, but it probably wasn't his closest friend screwing the fucking coach.

Not that it'd ever stop Seppo from trying to get a leg over on anyone that gives him the slightest inch. Teuvo included. That's his charm, isn't it?

#

Rod always thinks of each season's draftees in bunches. Some years, he's looked at them and sighs a very little on the inside, _a bad bunch_ , despite his fervent belief in always having room for improvement. Some players, even in this day and age, skate by on being young with a rev'ed-up metabolism and soft hands, making them the worst part of Rod's job. Development doesn't amount to shit unless those kids get out of that _rut_. 

Thanks to last season being a tire fire, crashing to the bottom of the rankings, this year has a better bunch than last year, all of those top picks that the Canes management have scrapped together.. He's been development coach for over five years, is sure he's gotten close to seeing it _all_ from these young fresh faces who make him feel older with every passing bunch of draftees. He's not dead yet, though. 

This Aho kid-- who looks 12 with a pair of big brown eyes and a neck Rod could snap if he breathed wrong on it-- is promising. He's not very big, but it's not the 1990s anymore and bodies like Rod's wear out fast in this new NHL. Aho plays smart, and despite his soft-spokenness, there's a fire in those eyes that Rod likes despite himself.

 _Twink_ , a traitorous part of him whispers. Rod's twice the kid's age and probably twice his weight too, and he stops that thought right fucking there. The only reason Rod should be looking at his clipboard is to figure out whether Aho could stand to gain twenty pounds without losing a step. The financial fallout from the divorce was bad enough that it took him years to get back in the— romantic— game and he doesn't want a second one. Shit.

Rod pushes out a breath. Looking's different from touching, and if his job requires that he look and touch each Canes rookie good enough to breathe NHL air, that's what he'd do. His job.

#

Seducing the development coach is a lot easier than even Seppo hoped in his wildest dreams. They're up against the mirrors, getting them greasy and slick with their bodies, and Brind'amour holds Seppo like he's afraid of being the slavering wolf after the little scared cub—

He wonders whether he should let Brind'amour in on how much he _isn't_ a cub. The intense, dark look in those eyes distract Seppo too much to actually come to a decision.  
Seppo turns his face just as Brind'amour's mouth scrapes against his smooth cheek, chapped lips missing his own.

"God," Brind'amour breathes, hot against Seppo's smooth cheek, hitching his legs higher up his waist. Fuck, he's strong enough to hold up _two_ of him, probably even could fuck him up against this mirrored wall if Seppo asked really nicely.

Seppo bites back a smile. He grinds his cock against Brind'amour instead, panting about how big he is-- not that Seppo could tell through their team-issued shorts, not that a guy Brind'amour's age gets ready as quick as younger men would, not that Seppo isn't hard just because of all of that body right in between his legs—

Every guy he's fucked falls for that line, including Brind'amour, who squeezes his ass, licking a hot stripe across his cheek, "I've heard that before, kid--"

Seppo flushes hot and dark despite himself, and curls his hand in Brind'amour's shirt, "Yeah? Want to show me?"

Brind'amour doesn't blush, not like Seppo does, and shoves a hand right into Seppo's shorts, his eyes fixed on some spot below Seppo's face. Brind'amour leers as he squeezes, "That's what I love about you Euros," and it's Seppo's turn to be confused. Brind'amour laughs, not unkindly, his hand stroking pre-come all over Seppo's cock, "You're not cut," the casual tone making him blush like the cub he really isn't. 

Seppo shivers and humps Brind'amour's palm, laughing, "Yeah? Don't you want to do more?" Brind'amour tightens his hand around his balls, his teeth nipping against the corner of Seppo's jaw, "Don't tempt me, kid—"

"You could suck me off, _coach_ , play with my—" Seppo pauses, not having the English for 'foreskin', changes it to 'cock'-- "my cock, please?" He widens his eyes, and Brind'amour growls out a 'fuck' underneath his breath.

Seppo slides his fingers through Brind'amour's hair, "Or I could—?" Brind'amour presses a hand over Seppo's mouth, and squeezes his chin, his eyes almost blazing at him. Seppo swallows as Brind'amour yanks down his shorts and he hates his cock for twitching under that scrutiny, all pink and flushed and hard like the set of Brind'amour's mouth.

Brind'amour gets to his knees like a man his age does, his hands tight around Seppo's hips. He— he knows how to suck a cock, and Seppo has to explain away the teeth marks to Teukka.

 

# 

23 men and 39,000 miles to travel in this season and Rod knows how impossible it is to hide the _thing_ , affair, whatever the fuck the youngest rookies are calling it now, from the entire Carolina Hurricanes roster at 35,000 feet in the air or at two fully-booked hotel floors, or at ice level.

Aho smirks at him from the lounge as Rod walks back to his office from the pisser.

Rod presses out a thin smile before he turns back to his notebook. His dick has always gotten him in trouble. The Flyers. Lindros. Kelle. Amy. And now he's boffing Aho who wasn't even born when he got drafted. Jesusfuck.

Teuvo Teräväinen has to know. Finns don't get the sunny rep that Swedes do, and Teräväinen's a even more sulky sort. If looks could kill, Rod'd have been dead multiple times thanks to Teräväinen. He pinches his nose, feeling the years of bad decisions underneath his thin skin and promises himself, yet again, that he's going to stop saying yes to Aho.

"You're a goddamned dog," Justin Williams drawls. Rod doesn't choke on his water. They're in his rarely-used office, with the door closed, and no one can hear them.

Justin grins, his eyes fixed on Rod's purpling face, "What, you don't think I don't know what goes on in _my_ team? Who's schtupping who?" 

Rod can feel his pulse beat between his temples. He presses his lips together against _don't tell them_. Aho's an adult. So is he. Justin pretending to have the ten commandments carved in his heart would be a bit rich considering what Rod remembers of his rookie days, the days he had a ring around his finger and the nights he didn't. Rod takes a slow breath, puts on a wry smile, "I recommended you for captain, Willy."

"Yeah, Roddy," Justin says, leaning back against the door instead of claiming the desk as a seat like he usually would, "So why can't you keep your wick dry? Sebby's not that hot."

Staring at the ink-blotter, covered with doodles from all the times he's been stuck in conference calls, isn't a good answer. Rod doesn't _know_ why he keeps pulling Aho aside for extra work, why he lets Aho strip his pants and offer him his mouth— just that it feels good, just like it always did with—

"Sex makes a lot of people stupid," Rod shrugs, "even me." He traces a doodle with his finger, shrugging. 

Justin laughs, "Sebby's a heartbreaker, Roddy. I think nursing your lonely heart would be too much." Rod flicks his eyes up at Justin's face, struggling against surprise and— jealousy. Justin leans back in his chair, his hands folded like they are in the middle of a tedious tape review, "Sebby can take care of himself. You, though?" 

The heat in Rod's cheeks shouldn't be there. Rod presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose, feeling a stress headache come on, and says, "Thanks for your concern."

"Can't win with a coach whose heart's broken," Justin drawls. 

 

#

Aho leans down, his lips tight around Rod's fingers, and Rod struggles against the flutter of _wrongness_ in his gut, seeing those cheeks hollow in promise around them. He doesn't yank his fingers out of Aho's warm, inviting mouth despite the shreds of his professionalism screaming at him to.

Instead, Rod shoves them in deeper, past his second knuckles, making Aho moan loudly around his fingers.

"Fuck," he breathes, feeling Aho huff laughingly around his fingers before he pulls back and smirks. Rod can't tear his eyes away from how Aho's lower lip is that much puffier because of sucking on his fingers, is hyper-aware of the sensory flashes of that mouth around his dick.

Aho scrubs his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes hot on Rod's throat, "Going to pretend you're not interested, Coach?"

Rod tugs his hand away, his face hot despite himself. "Aho, we shouldn't—" He cuts himself off, doesn't want to name just how _unprofessional_ they were and how much more professional they should be now. Aho presses even closer, his voice dangerously soft when he says, "I'm the best goal scorer on this team, _Rod_."

He grits out, "So if you're such a good player, why are you in need of coaching, _Aho_?"  
Sure, yeah the kid's sucked his cock, and maybe that means he can call anyone else by their first name, but Rod never called anyone he sucked off by theirs, not in his playing days. Aho using his first name isn't even the issue, not when he's this close and warm. 

Bitch of it is, Rod is old enough to know better, which is why he isn't getting himself fired for slapping the smirk off a star player's face even though he can easily picture Aho's eyes filling with tears. Aho curls his hand around Rod's arm, his thin fingers digging into muscle, "Because you like how I suck your dick."

They're alone in this cinder-block tunnel. Rod keeps his eyes fixed on Aho's face instead of looking around for eavesdroppers, help—

A 48-year-old man doesn't need help. What would he need help _for_? Aho's just very eager. Rod should let the kid flirt and then drop him like a hot potato when it turns out that 48 is too old… right? Rod presses his shoulders back against the wall, the chill seeping into his back, and looks down from his height advantage, "Work on your other assets, kid."

Aho snorts, "Wait, you're turning down blowjobs? _You_?"

"Am I a slut, Aho?" Rod asks, working against the urge to flinch away at the untruth, hating himself for letting his heart race. This close he can smell Aho, sticky and warm from practice. His eyes slide to a spot below Aho's lip, where he missed shaving. Aho slips his hand up Rod's neck, his cold fingers pressing on the pulse, and smiles, small and tight.

Aho sucks on his lip before he says, "I don't know. I think picking up a much-younger player was very slutty, don't you? I hope the media doesn't figure it out."

"You—" Rod hisses. Aho strokes down the open collar of his polo, tugs on it, "Aw, Rod, don't look like that. Give me quality ice time, maybe a letter to wear, and we can just keep on fucking." 

Rod's spine turns to ice, as he realizes, "You planned this— Christ." Aho grinds the heel of his hand against the front of his pants, "Well, you sound like you're being blackmailed, coach. There are benefits to _this_ , yeah?" 

Rod snaps his hand down to yank Aho's hand away from his dick, "Stop it, you punk—"

"That's not what Wardo said you would do," Aho says, making Rod's mind blank, almost happy that Eric isn't _here_ anymore, that he and Willy never fucked and Aho raises his eyebrows, "That was a lucky guess, eh?"

"What teammates do with each other is their business. This—" he jerks his chin into the too-small space between Aho and himself, " _Isn't_ just our business." 

Aho's expression looks like he's pouting, and Rod know that he isn't. Not when Aho smiles, like a used-car-dealer, "Hm, maybe. You're a legend. A cup winner. They gave Roy a lot of rope before _he_ quit. What's keeping you from fucking me, Rod? Morals?" He laughs.

"You're blackmailing me, that's why," Rod huffs. Aho curls closer, his hands still hot and warm on Rod's shoulders, "Doesn't mean I don't like it, Rod," and Rod scrubs his sweaty palm against his pants.

Kissing Aho is never sweet, but every time he kisses him Rod feels like he got one over him, the upper hand he almost never has— Aho bites his lip, pushing him away enough to slip his belt through the buckle.

Rod still gets hard in Aho's mouth. Aho flicks those big dark eyes up at him, smirking as hard as he can with a dick in his mouth, and Rod remembers why he keeps fucking this kid. He closes his eyes as Aho sucks him down, fast and mean, the noises muffled against the front of his khakis.

#

Feeling Teukka give him a death glare isn't anything new. Teukka's default facial expression is a mild glare that doesn't keep people from trying to make him smile. Teukka's eyes burn more with tears, Seppo's sure. He always takes everything so personally, his skin brittle enough to break whenever someone gets under it. They've been good friends for so long, sharing gold and sweaty sheets together, and he should know who Seppo is. Why would they be romantic? Impossible— they _are_ friends, and they've never been like _that_. 

Seppo still clicks with him on the ice, takes his passes and scores just to make him skate over and clap his back a little too hard. Teukka still gives him those hot looks when Seppo drinks too deeply from his bottle, like he's relieving what else he could do. Seppo isn't averse to hooking up with Teukka, but he's not into getting choked out, like, sexually.

Even old men need to be screwed, and if screwing Roddy means that Seppo doesn't get traded for an extra month or so— so be it. Seepo's seen journeymen throw themselves around the Liiga, burn themselves out with exercise and drugs just to get that contract extension. The NHL is full of has-beens with more plastic than cartilage in their knees holding out for one last shot at the Cup. Seppo has no intention of being a has-been. His dad never had to take Seppo aside and tell him how to look for the safe option, the sure thing over the newest team, high-risk and high-yield.

Hockey's a business. If Teukka doesn't understand, he refuses to understand, they're still teammates until Teukka gets traded away again, cup ring or no. Should it make Seppo feel sorry?

Seppo feels only the feelings the new letter on his sweater commands.


End file.
